You found him outside the storage room near the old wing, crouched with his back against the wall, wiping blood off his split knuckles with the sleeve of his jacket.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just glanced up, exhaled through his nose.

“Let me guess. You heard.”

You didn’t answer. Just knelt down beside him, pulling out the makeshift kit you always carried when he got like this.

He watched your hands.

Didn’t move when you cleaned the dried blood on his brow. Didn’t flinch when the antiseptic stung. Didn’t thank you, either.

“You’re quiet,” he said eventually, tone almost teasing. “What, no lecture this time?”

You kept your eyes on the cut.

“Would it matter?”

That made him go still.

The silence stretched. He looked at you again—longer this time.

And then, quietly—like he didn’t mean for you to hear it:

“Not if you’re just gonna leave after.”

You didn’t respond.

You just pressed the last bandage over his cheek, then sat back, eyes unreadable.

Neither of you said what you really wanted to.